


The Black Gate

by gurub



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27383887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurub/pseuds/gurub
Summary: This is an alternate universe fan-fiction where when Aragorn and Co meet the Mouth of Sauron at The Black Gate, Frodo is really captured and dead, and so the doom of Middle Earth is coming.
Kudos: 6





	The Black Gate

Failure. That’s the only emotion Aragorn’s mind could muster. He looked at the Mouth of Sauron with his vile teeth, as he clutched the mithril shirt that barely a year ago had saved Frodo’s life against a cave troll. And the weight of failure bore down upon him. The Fellowship had failed in its journey. 

_ It cannot be true.  _ He thought to himself.  _ I will not believe it.  _ Yet as he stared into the soulless face in front of him, he knew in his heart the truth. Frodo was dead, and with him the hopes of Middle Earth. The path that had been started by his ancestor had finally reached its conclusion. And suddenly he felt an anger stronger than he had ever known. An anger at Sauron, at Saruman, at himself. Brego inched forward. Anduril left its sheath. He never heard the head hit the ground. He turned Brego to face his companions and looked them each in the eyes. 

“If this is our end” he said “then Sauron will remember it.” They looked back at him, and each in turn nodded. 

“It’s a good day to die,” Gimli said. 

They rode their horses back to the party of soldiers. Behind them Aragorn heard the black gate opening, and the marching of orcs. So Sauron had decided he wanted one last taste of battle. 

He looked into the eyes of his men and saw fear. He knew that fear well. It had followed him his entire life. But no longer. These men would know the liberation he felt from that fear, but not through a lie. He would not let them die for a lie. 

“Frodo is dead,” he said. Whispers ran through the crowd. The men grew restless as orcs started to surround them. “Sauron will soon have the ring, and he will stretch his dark hand all over the land.” 

“Then should we not go home my lord?” a soldier remarked. “We must protect our families, to prepare for the upcoming darkness.” 

“No!” Aragron said. “We cannot ride home. To ride now would be to run.” 

“But to stay is to die!” 

“Yes! Yes, you are staying to die” he said. “It is unlikely that any of us will ever see our loved ones again. We stare down the very eyes of death. But we will fight. We will fight because in fighting we do not give Sauron his final victory. We do not give him the satisfaction of knowing the strength of men has finally failed. We do not let the darkness consume us!” Aragorn bellowed a top Brego. 

“You are soldiers of Gondor! Of Rohan! You took up your shields to protect your lands until your dying breath. There lies your final breath my brothers!” he yelled as he pointed his sword at the orcs that had now fully surrounded his men. “There lies your final victory! For even in death, you will show Sauron that the strength of men does not die with failure. It will not be suffocated by darkness! You will look the Dark Lord in his lidless eye, and tell him you stand ready to die!”. Aragorn’s blood was pumping. The thrill of the upcoming battle was beginning to consume him. “You will die! But you will die standing tall, and telling the Dark Lord that even if he takes this land, he will never take our strength! You will let him taste failure one last time before you leave this world!” 

Aragorn locked eyes with Baranor, the Captain of Gondor. The man was ready to run. Aragorn could see the fear rising in him. But as he looked at Aragorn’s face, he stood taller. With the strength of men, and all of his ancestors, Baranor of Gondor stood tall, and nodded to his king. He roared his support. 

Then the captain of Rohan roared. With each second, a new man joined. The field soon became filled with screams of men. They looked across the field to the swarm of orcs, and understood. This was their death. But it was not their end. So long as they stood in defiance of the Dark Lord, his victory would not be complete. That was why he had sent his army out after obtaining the Ring. He wanted to taste the failure of men one last time. But he would not have it. 

The orcs looked across the field, savoring the taste of flesh they were about to consume. When the men roared however, he saw something else race across their disfigured faces. Fear. These orcs had been bred for war. They knew only anger. They knew that this battle was theirs. And yet they stared across a field of men roaring, every single one of them ready for the death waited for them. Not a man tried to run. And so the orcs felt fear wash across them. Because they looked at something they did not understand. Something they could never feel, or even fathom. They looked at hope. 

Aragorn turned his horse to face his end. He turned his head to have one last look at the men ready to march behind him into the jaws of death. 

“For Frodo” he said as he kicked his horse forward. Brego started to pick up speed. Behind him he heard the men of Middle Earth yell and begin to march. He roared as Brego drew closer to the orcs. Within seconds the horse was leaping over a line of orcs. Aragorn swung his sword, and felt a satisfying thud as he cleared one head from its body. Brego reared, and kicked another orc with his hind legs. Suddenly the horse screeched, and Aragorn was flying through the air. 

He hit the ground with a thud, and felt his head start to spin. An orc was quickly on him, as it tried to swing it’s axe for his head. He rolled and then stabbed his sword through the creature’s stomach. As it fell, Aragorn stood. He cleared the head off of another orc, and took a second to observe the chaos around him. His soldiers were in the thick of battle, with each man surrounded by at least three orcs. This would not be a long battle. But not one of them tried to run. The line held, even as men dropped from it. 

Aragorn parried a blow, chopped another head, and looked to his left to see Gandalf fighting with Merry and Pippin at his side. Hobbits. The smallest people he had ever met, but braver than any ten men. What he would give to have had the chance to visit the Shire, to see what beautiful country had bore these amazing creatures. He saw an orc block Pippin’s sword and plunge it’s blade into the halfling’s stomach. Yet even as the creature bore down on him, the hobbit never stopped fighting. Aragorn hoped that Frodo had died in a similar manner. 

An arrow flew across Merry’s face and pierced a white cloak. Gandalf gasped as the arrow jutted from his back. He hit the orc that had shot the arrow with some form of light, and the creature fell. But two more took its place and charged at Gandalf. One managed to get its sword into the stomach of its target. The white wizard started to fall. The battle was reaching its end. 

Aragorn cut down another orc, and even as he saw his friends falling around him he smiled. He smiled because he knew that even though Sauron had finally achieved his goal, he had not won. The will of men stood even to their dying breath. Another orc fell, and another. Aragorn no longer knew how many he had killed, or how long it had been. All he knew was the thrill of the battle. The anticipation of death. He swung his sword and stopped as pain ran across his back. He looked down to see a sword tip sticking out from his chest. As he fell he could hear Sauron roar in triumph from Barad-dûr. The last descendent of Númenor had fallen, Isildur’s line finally ended. As Aragorn lay dying on Dagorlad plain, he laughed. He turned to look the Dark Lord in the eye one last time. 

“You haven’t won,” he whispered. “So long as even one stands against you, you will never win”. The Dark Lord screamed. 

  
  


So it was that the Third Age of Middle Earth ended. The Dark Lord Sauron used his ring to cover all the land in a second darkness, and impose his malice. But word reached across the continent of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the last king of Gondor, and his men who gave their last breath in defiance of the Dark Lord. It reached the lords in their castles and the farmers in their huts. It reached those in the deepest dungeons of Barad-dûr even as they spent their days being tortured by orcs. It reached a little boy on the outskirts of Minas Tirith, as he saw orcs chop his father down. He remembered those words as he picked up his father’s sword. He saw his sister pick up a pitchfork as she remembered too. They remembered what the words said. That hope was not dead and the battle was not lost. It never would be. Not so long as they stood. 


End file.
